Apple Pie Life
by chrissymi
Summary: You can take the hunter out of the hunt,but seriously,take the hunt out of the hunter?Dean had promised Sam he'd try:'You go live some normal Apple Pie life, Dean. Promise me'And he was trying!But how will Lisa cope with Dean turning up all beat to Hell?
1. Apple Pie Life

_**All things Kripke belong to Kripke; including the Winchester brothers, all Supernatural characters, Angels and Demons alike, and even the Impala. I'm just going to borrow them for a while, have my evil way with them and I'll eventually give them back (sigh) mostly intact - maybe just a little dented, or scratched…**_

_**This story takes place after the Season 5 finale, Swan Song, so expect some spoilers up to and including this episode.**_

You can probably take the hunter out of the hunt, but seriously, take the hunt out of the hunter? Dean had promised Sam he'd try though. '_You go live some normal Apple Pie life, Dean. Promise me!' _Dean was trying… really, he was!

He staggered up the stairs, completely forgetting how many steps there were and snagged his boot on the top tread. He hit the ground hard, smashed onto the porch floor with a huge thud and an even louder grunt of pain. Damn it! Like he wasn't already hurting! He was physically trashed and this little stunt hurt like a freaking bitch! His vision swam in and out in a pyrotechnic display. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to keep himself from passing out… again. He was pretty proud of himself; he'd at least made it back, umm, _home_ (although it still didn't really feel like home), and mostly in one piece. And even though he had no idea how he'd managed the task, he'd obviously made it back without crashing the Impala into some tree, or an oncoming car, or into a ditch. So kudos to him! But hell, it pretty much felt like every bone in his body was busted, every muscle bruised and abused, and that sticky wet stuff, that he knew was blood, was everywhere! He was alright though… _he was always alright_… really. Ok, so there was a lot of blood – head wounds always bled a lot, and maybe a few bruised ribs – nothing that wouldn't eventually mend – but he was ok. All good!

Man, who was he kidding? Son-of-a-bitch; he hurt!

Damn it, was he rambling to himself? Must be concussed too…

It took a few minutes before he dared move again. He had to wait until the residual waves of pain and the persistent sensation of hurling had passed not to mention he had to be sure none of his limbs were about to entirely snap off before he even tried to move. _'Just suck it up Winchester!'_ he scolded himself. Damn it, he could do this! He reached out and tentatively lifted himself up onto one elbow, hissing when antagonised pain stabbed at his side. Shouldn't hurt so bad, surely? Maybe he'd actually busted a rib or two! Legs still seemed intact though, and functional, and that had to be good… right? Meant he could kind of claw and drag himself to the front door. He managed to prop himself up against the door jamb and leaned back with a sigh of relief and accomplishment. He gazed longingly at the doorbell for a while, he even tried to lever himself up high enough to reach it. In the end he just banged on the door. Then, with all his energy consumed and depleted, he collapsed back against the wall, with his arm wrapped protectively across his abdomen and hoped Lisa was still home, and hadn't already left without him.

It should have been easier than this, surely…

'_You go find Lisa. You pray to God she's dumb enough to take you in. You have barbecues, and go to football games. You go live some normal Apple Pie life, Dean. Promise me!' _Sam had pleaded the point with him, what seemed like a life-time ago.

_Well, little brother, I'm trying, I really am…_

~~~~~oooOOOooo~~~~~

He was late… again. Not that she had expected anything different. She had learnt not to rely on him too much, not any more: certainly not with appointments or engagements, not with anything that had him mingling with her friends. He'd changed, a lot. He still looked like the man she once knew, but something had died inside of him. All that was left was a vague resemblance, just a shell. Gone was the witty, humorous, and full of energy, extroverted, womanising Dean Winchester of old. In his place was a reserved, withdrawn, brooding, lifeless imitation.

He tried though. He really did try to act… 'normal'… if that was even possible for him. He attempted to put on a brave face for her and her son – in fact he actually managed to pull it off in front of Ben. His laughs and smiles all seemed genuine when Ben was around, like somehow he managed to relax, and let his guard down a little. But for the most part she could see in his expression that it was all a façade. Somehow his smiles never quite made it all the way to his eyes anymore. He'd lost his spark, his effervesce. She wasn't sure it would ever come back. Still she hoped that one day maybe she and Ben could help him enough to put the sparkle back. If he stayed that long.

'_It's okay. It's gonna be okay.'_ She'd promised him, she only hoped that promise would come true. She could be patient, and she could wait, but she wondered if he could.

She still didn't really know why he'd come back to her. Or why he'd seemingly walked away from his old life. Because, as far as she knew, he hadn't 'hunted' at all since he'd first knocked on her door asking for the beer she had promised him. He still hadn't spoken a word about what had happened to bring him to her door, so she knew it was bad. More so, he hadn't mentioned his brother at all, which probably meant he was gone… in the never coming back, ever again, probably 'dead' kind of gone. She wasn't sure he could survive loosing Sam and at the same time abandoning the only life he had known from childhood. He was addicted to it, and to Sam. The hunt and Sam, was all he'd ever had worth living for. They were everything that made him, him.

There was a restlessness about him now-a-days, probably from years spent always on the move. Years spent living a life on the edge, never knowing if this day would be his last. Obviously you can take the man out of the hunt, but you can't take the hunt out of the man. She'd noticed the way he routinely turned his attention to the more unusual TV news broadcasts. She could see in his expression as possible scenarios and culprits ticked over in his mind. She'd observed him reading the obituaries in the news papers, right after reading any other obscure articles that had raised a possible 'supernatural' flag. And yet he still hadn't acted on it, hadn't as yet left her to go and track down what he knew was out there. But she never queried him about it; in reality she didn't want to. She didn't want to know that he was itching to return to the life of a hunter. But she also understood that it was so much a part of what made him who he was. She wasn't sure he was even made to live a normal 'apple-pie' life. It was like caging a wild animal.

She hated the thought that maybe one day he would need his old life back, more than he needed her.

She couldn't quell the insecurity that came with watching him fall into old routines and habits. She couldn't convince herself that she could be enough to keep him grounded, or keep him from the hunt. It was who he was; a hunter, through and through, and she could never change that. She couldn't even delude herself into thinking that he could give it up: certainly not for ever and probably not for much longer. She suspected that one day she would come home to find him gone.

Maybe he was gone already, maybe today was the day he would go. All the same, she didn't want to believe that he could take off without so much as a good bye a least.

No, he was probably just held up at work, or stuck in traffic, or just couldn't decide which wine to buy…

She held her breath when she thought she heard the Impala pull into the driveway, but she had her music playing so loud that she wasn't sure. She waited a few minutes, listening for the sound of the front door, hoped he would soon be striding down the hallway. But he didn't come. So he probably wasn't home… yet.

She finished applying her lipstick, pursing her lips together to smooth the colour out. She grinned to herself, pleased with her overall appearance. If her outfit and extra-alluring make up didn't go a long way to making him want to stay, then their night alone should! They hadn't actually done 'it' as yet, not that she hadn't wanted to. She still fanaticised about the weekend they spent together a good decade ago. But she also knew he hadn't been in the right state of mind for any kind of sexual exploits. So she hadn't pushed him. She knew he would come to her when he was ready. Didn't mean she couldn't stack all the odds in her favour though! She turned from side to side, running her hand down her taught, flat abdomen. She tucked the top of her black, lacy bra back beneath the strapless bodice, admiring how the cut of the dress and the contours of her bra gave her quite an impressive cleavage. She still had a 'to die for' figure! Except maybe her arse… she never could loose as much pregnancy fat off her arse as she'd have liked. She frowned, contemplating changing her dress, again. No, she decided, he liked this dress…

Then she heard it; a bang. She listened closer, and as Guns 'n' Roses' 'Sweet Child o' mine' came to an end she heard another thump, followed by another. One last tap followed just as the intro to 'You're Crazy' started. But someone had knocked, or banged, on the front door, she was sure.

Maybe his arms were full and he couldn't juggle the wine and his keys to unlock the door…


	2. An apple a day

He must have drifted off, because the next thing he knew she was there, kneeling beside him. He had to blink a few times to get her into focus; his eyes were still blurry, and maybe more than a little swollen shut. When he eventually managed to clear his vision he noticed the tears streaming down her face, leaving mascara tracks down her cheeks.

"Dean, please Dean, wake up! God, please be ok!" she looked scared, really scared.

He had to blink again. Blood was trickling into his eyes making it hard to see her anymore. Even so, his eyes just couldn't seem to keep her in focus for long. But he could tell she was wearing her skimpy red dress, the really tight, curve-hugging one that accentuated her every asset; he gave her a lopsided grin in appreciation. He'd asked her to wear it, even though she thought it made her arse look big – but he loved her arse in that dress! Man did she look good; her hair was kinda half swept up off her face, and hung in tresses down her back. He adored that colour lipstick on her; it was deep scarlet and made her look all pouty, in a totally sexy way. Pity about the tears though, they were mucking up the oh-so-sexy, deep smoky eye shadow she'd shaded her eyes with.

"Hey." He moaned, grinning in a goofy, semi-conscious way. They were supposed to be going to some diner to farewell a guy she worked with: Arthur Something. He had finally got a promotion to their head office, next state over, and had invited most of the work team out to help him celebrate. Dean had refused her invitation at first, last thing he wanted to do was celebrate, or socialise, or stop his grieving. But she'd begged him, organised for Ben to stay over at a friend's house so they could spend the whole night together, just the two of them. He needed to do this – or so she'd said – he needed to get out, and back into life again. He figured he could at least try, for her, because she'd already done so much for him. She'd even put on the dress he'd wanted her to wear, just for him…

"Dean?" Her voice was all high-pitched and croaky, struggling to hold back the tears.

"You look good." He informed her, just as his head got too heavy and lolled off to the side.

She must have caught his face in her trembling hands just before he blacked out again, because when he managed to get her back into focus she was cradling his face. It took a few moments to realise she was also talking, only he may have missed a bit…

"… it, Dean? Can you hear me?" She paused, waiting for an answer. "Dean?"

"Huh?" he grunted, his eyes rolling around aimlessly, unable to pause long enough to get her back into focus.

"Oh God, Dean! Just sit still, ok, I'm calling an ambulance." She was still holding his face in her hands, to keep him from sliding down the wall into a heap, or from dissolving into a sticky puddle on the floor.

"No." He managed to claw back to reality enough to know he couldn't go to a hospital – it was an automatic reply, a response that had been ingrained into his psyche; because there were always too damned many questions at a hospital. Hospitals were strictly for life and death scenarios only. "No, please don't. No hospital! Can't… please!" Plus, he didn't have any fake health insurance to fall back on, and he wasn't sure he had enough credit left on his credit cards either to cover the bills. Lisa had wanted him to stop all that; the insurance scams, the fraudulent credit cards and the pool hall hustling… He'd even got himself a regular 9 to 5 job (actually it was 7 'til 3, and only twice a week) at the local timber yard, hauling timber palings around all day. Didn't earn much though, still it helped Lisa with some of the bills, a little. He certainly hadn't the money to fork out for a bunch of medical bills, and neither did Lisa. She could barely afford to keep herself and Ben fed, let alone all three of them. She never once complained though; never asked him to take his sorry, screwed up life and get the hell out and leave her alone. Never complained when the bills rocked up and she had to put off buying Ben a new pair of runners, or couldn't take him to the movies like she'd promised. She just smiled it all away and told Dean she'd had it tougher than this before and survived.

"I can't… No hospital… Please, Lisa, I can't!" he pleaded with her.

"Dean, you need a doctor." she insisted.

"No… 's ok. Really, I'm good." Dean muttered, trying to pat her hand reassuringly. Wasn't anything the doctors could do anyway, except confirm his own self diagnosis. He knew he just needed a standard patch up job…

"No, you're not!" she accused. "Dean, you're bleeding all over the place! And… can you even move?"

"Uhh, hah." He tried to nod his head, and he should have known that would be a mistake, because all of a sudden the world started to tilt all askew. '_Man don't pass out, don't pass out!'_ he urged himself.

"Dean, please… I gotta call an ambulance." She pleaded with him, but she knew why he was so hesitant. There was every likelihood a physical examination would reveal unexplainable injuries, maybe even something that would interest the local law. Still she couldn't just let him sit there and die on her front porch!

"No, please, just… can you… Please Lisa… just help me up." he pleaded with her, reaching out his hand looking for her to acquiescence with an offer to hoist him back up to his feet. "I'm ok, really."

"Damn it Dean!" she sighed, "Why am I doing this?" She didn't believe him for a second, because he was most certainly not ok! However she found herself shifting closer to his side and slipped her hand behind his back, "Ok, are you ready?" she queried, grabbing a handful of his waistband in her grasp.

"Yeah." He mumbled, preparing for the pain to rip through him once more when he stood.

"Ok then, on three." She squeezed his arm in reassurance. "One… two… three!"

Somebody squealed as the pain tore shreds off him. _Did he do that_? He must be falling apart, he couldn't even stifle a shriek! He couldn't disassociate himself from the pain of physical trauma any more! Definitely going soft. Or maybe he really was beaten to hell. He leaned into her, thankful for her support and the tender hand rubbing his back. He moaned as aftershocks of residual pain rippled through him. His guts hurt – real bad – and it made it agonising to stand up straight. So blow it, he could hunch! Just bruised his insides maybe, he sure hoped he didn't have any internal bleeding – he was doing enough of that on the outside! But definitely some busted ribs happening. And probably busted some part of his brain too; he had all the signs of a monster concussion! Damned woozy head nearly eclipsed his consciousness again! And man he was going to puke, for sure!

"Dean?… Dean!" '_Was she speaking again?'_

"Yeah, I'm ok…" His mouth replied, working on auto pilot. "I'm good…"

"Where… what do I do?" She hadn't done this kind of thing before. Emergency triage in the family home wasn't apparently all that common in the suburbs!

"Bathroom…" He muttered. He needed to sit down, before he fell down and he didn't want to stain the lounge suite or the carpet with blood… or puke!


	3. She'll be apples

It was a long walk through the house until they reached the bathroom. She steadied his meandering stagger, kept him propped up on both feet and saved him several times from face planting into the floor. As they reached the bathroom door he urged her to hurry. His last meal was making a reappearance, and soon!

He disentangled himself from her grasp and managed to slam his knees to the floor just as the gagging started. He clutched at his ribs with every hurl, moaning in agony with each heave as he vomited into the toilet. Lisa knelt by his side, gently resuming her comforting back rub. Damned concussion!

Eventually the hurling ceased and he slumped over the toilet, cradling his pounding head on his arm as the other wrapped about his middle in an attempt to quell the fiery agony tearing through his abdomen and chest.

She wanted to query him about what had happened, but she couldn't bring herself to ask. No, in reality she didn't want to know. She didn't want to know that what he did had ever been necessary. Because she didn't want to know about the horrors that walked the streets, or lived under the bed, certainly didn't need confirmation that evil was alive and kicking and possibly living in the house next door. No, sometimes ignorance really was bliss! So she didn't ask.

"Dean, are you ok?" she queried him softly.

He hadn't the energy to answer her so he gingerly nodded his head, weary of the thumping pain in his skull and the dancing lights playing at the corner of his eyes that threatened to steal away his consciousness.

"Here, rinse your mouth out…" she held a glass of water in front of him as she gently pried him away from his toilet-hugging slump. It refreshed him somewhat to rid himself of the taste of both blood and puke in his mouth. He sipped at what was left of the water before giving her the glass back. The cool soothing water managed to refresh and reenergise his battered and weary body, he only hoped the water wasn't now on a hurling agenda.

"Can you get up?" she was trying to urge him up.

"Hmmm." he groaned in affirmation.

"Ok then, let me help you." Her hands slipped beneath his arm pits, but she waited for him to try and shift before she hoisted him upwards. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Ok then, up we go." She took as much of his weight as she could, but relied on his remaining strength to propel him upwards. When almost upright something hacked across his chest like a chainsaw and he hissed with pain, crumpling forward and almost collapsing straight back down onto the floor. Her arms were suddenly around him, pulling him close into her embrace, and averting the possible disaster. "I got you." She reassured him, as her hands kept him steady. He nestled his face into the crook of her neck, finding comfort in the warmth of her soft silky skin against his battered face. Her hand tenderly stroked his head, until he found his equilibrium once more.

"Ok Dean, we're gonna back up a step, ok, so you can sit down." She managed to flip the toilet seat down whilst maintaining one arm about him to keep him steady. He 'hmmm-ed' again in response and shuffled back until his heel tapped against the base of the toilet.

"Ok, down you go…" she urged him to sit down. "Easy, nearly there." Her grasp tightened around him, trying to steady him as he sat. "That's it… easy. Take it slow." Eventually she eased him down onto the closed lid of the toilet.

He nodded in appreciation once he was seated, and mumbled again that he was ok. His insides still felt like they'd exploded and then been put through a meat grinder so he hunched over again, grabbing at his abdomen to stop any potential leakage, or rupture. But his ribs still screamed in agony; leaning over wasn't helping at all in that department. He focused on breathing, it hurt like hell to do it though, but it sure beat not breathing, he was dizzy enough as it was. He was sure he could feel his ribs shifting under his protective grasp with every forced breath, but he knew from experience that it didn't hurt so bad if he put pressure on his side when he inhaled. His head was still swimming. Maybe it was from lack of oxygen, because his breaths were so shallow, or maybe it was from the concussion. Either way he hadn't dared take his eyes of the fuzzy pink slippers she was wearing; the ones Ben had given her for Mother's Day. He needed something to try and focus on, to keep him grounded, or he was pretty sure he'd take a nose dive straight into the floor. Better to stay still, with his head down and watch the regular drips of blood splatter by her feet instead. He should ask her to shift a little, before the blood ruined the slippers. He wondered if she had planned to wear them out because he was kind of hoping she'd wear her black strappy shoes, the ones with the outrageously high silver stiletto heels.

"Dean, Dean…" She was trying to coax him into looking at her. He let her guide his face upwards, but he had to try and focus all on his own (he almost managed too, only his eyes had apparently stopped working in unison!) "Dean, look at me… what do I do?" She was talking again.

"Huh?" _What could she do?_ Sammy would know what to do. He'd already have stitched him back together, cleaned him up, assessed his injuries, bandaged the worst of it, put him safely to bed, slapped a few bandaids on… only maybe not in that order. With the way his body ached, there was probably a great deal of patching up to be done.

"What can I do?" she repeated.

"Don't suppose you have… umm… any whiskey?" he whispered to her, giving her a brief pleading glance from pain weary, up turned eyes.

"Whiskey? What? You want whiskey? I don't think you should be drinking Dean." she censured him. "Certainly not alcohol."

"Please, Lisa… it umm… it helps take the edge off." When she didn't answer him he knew she was contemplating calling an ambulance instead. "Its ok, I'm ok. It's just, it usually… it helps. Do it all the time, it's ok. It... it helps stop it from hurting so much."

She paused and stared at him, contemplating his admission. Dean Winchester was actually admitting to being fallible. "I have some Paracetamol…" She suggested, knowing that his pain was, by far, worse than your average headache. Paracetamol would hardly make a dent on his current hurting.

"Yeah… ok, thanks…" He could do it without alcohol, he'd done it before. "It's ok… I'm ok…" As if to prove himself wrong, Dean crumpled in on himself as a ragged stab of pain ripped through his side and exploded somewhere deep in his abdomen. He scrunched his face up like he was trying to will the pain away. When he groaned involuntarily he knew it hadn't worked.

"Dean?" She leaned in against him, as her arm slipped over his shoulders. She rubbed his back as he worked through the pain. "I'm sorry Dean, but Whiskey's not my poison…"

"It's… ok." He moaned, somewhat deflated that his request had been rejected. He should have known she wouldn't go for it.

"Will Vodka do? I have Absolut." she sighed, conceding to his appeal. "Or I have some Southern Comfort, rum maybe, a few liqueurs… beer?" He was, after all, the one who seemed to know what he was doing! And the one suffering through the pain.

"Hmm, Vodka. Vodka's good." He smiled a little then, with relief. "Thanks Lis…"

"Anything else?" she queried, kneeling down in front of him. "What else do you need?"

"Umm, need… water… boiling water…" He muttered, _what else would he need?_ "Clean towels… and… umm…" _Sounded like he was having a baby!_ He grinned at the thought, congratulating himself on maintaining his wit. His thoughts were starting to wander and he listed a little as his gaze meandered around the room.

"Dean?" she ran her hand through his hair to get his attention, mindful of the gash above his left eye. "Is that all?"

"Huh?" he grinned back at her. He was feeling light headed and groggy; definitely concussed he decided. His body was not just battered and bruised, he was fatigued and weary. Sleep, unconsciousness or oblivion beckoned him and his eyes began to lethargically flutter closed.

"Dean, you still with me?" she queried, gently shaking his shoulder.

He winced when his throbbing ribs were jostled. "Yeah! Yeah, I'm ok…" he snapped back to consciousness.

"Of course you are… So do we need anything else?" she queried. "Like… a doctor maybe?"

"What? No… umm… but, need… umm, antiseptic… an' bandages…" he replied. "But no… no doc, ok? Please."

"Yeah, ok. No doctor… for now." Lisa sighed with compliance, thankful at least that he was lucid enough to have picked up on her camouflaged query. "But you gotta help me here, I don't know what I'm doing."

"Yeah... Just let me… umm… need to think…" His eyes rolled over the image of her before him. Her perfect features were marred by mascara tear-tracks down her cheeks… and blood. He knew she shouldn't be tainted like that, with crimson smears across her cheek, down her neck and spread over her shoulder. It took a few seconds before he realised it must have been his own blood. He put two and two together: the sharp piercing pain across his forehead and the blood. And with wherever all the blood was coming from, he figured he was going to need a few sutures somewhere. "Probably gonna need… a sewing needle… and dental floss…"

"A sewing needle and dental floss? Ok…" there was sarcasm in her tone, however Dean didn't seem to notice it. _Next he'd be asking for fluffy, white rabbits…_ She was worried about his state of mind now. He was very groggy and a little disorientated, on the verge of passing out again, so she was pretty sure he was concussed. He was certainly muttering nonsense. For now she humoured him. She figured the best she could do for him right now, if she couldn't convince him to see a doctor, was get him cleaned up and safely put to bed.

He shifted slightly, trying to alleviate the stabbing discomfort still ripping through his abdomen. And it probably wasn't a good move. As he shifted he winced with pain as his hand immediately clutched at his retaliative, throbbing ribs. "And an ice pack…"

"Ok." She placed her hand gently over his where he held his bruised ribs and gently rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. Her other hand cupped his cheek to keep him focused on her. "I should have all that. Is that all?"

"Yeah… should be…" He muttered.

"Ok then. I'll go get the first aid kit… and everything else." she caressed his cheek with concern. "Are you ok if I leave you? You won't pass out, or fall over will you?"

"Mmm ok." He grinned at her. He would probably have looked more convincing if his mouth wasn't full of blood again. "Promise."

Lisa eased back off her knees that had started to ache from kneeling on the hard marble tiles. She glanced down at the floor, where she nearly had her knee in the puddle of Dean's blood. She should probably have changed her clothes, she hardly needed to be wearing the arse-hugging, red dress any longer…

"Good, I'll be back in a sec, ok, and I'm gonna go put something more comfortable on." She said to him, instantly rebuking herself for her choice of words when he smirked cheekily back at her.

"Not sure I'm up for anything too physical…" he grinned roguishly, "but maybe if we take it slow, and real easy…"

"Yeah? I'd like to see you try!" _She really would._ It was what she'd hoped for, but they both knew he wasn't up for any kind of amorous bedroom antics tonight. "But for now just don't fall over… I'll be back in sec… ok?" She grinned at him then, relishing the brief glimmer of the Dean Winchester she once knew.

"I'm ok Lisa… really, I am." He grinned at her, almost convincingly.

"Just sit still, ok?" For a few moments she remained frozen in the door way. She knew she had a task to do, but feared that as soon as she took her eyes off him he'd crash to the floor, or vanish completely. She eventually pulled herself away, reminding herself to call Arthur and let him know that they wouldn't be able to make it to his dinner.

Dean's gaze followed her as she walked out of the bathroom, taking a moment to admire her arse. The appreciation was coupled with a dazed, lopsided grin. He listened as her slippered feet shuffled quickly down the hallway.

Although he tried, he wasn't sure he could make a go of the Apple Pie life that Sam had wanted him to have, mainly because it wasn't fair on Lisa. This was the first time in a long time that he actually felt normal. Because _this was his normal_; all battered and bruised, and it was clearly poles apart from her kind of normal. She didn't deserve this, certainly didn't deserve him and the lifetime of baggage that accompanied him. His current state certainly couldn't make him being here any more appealing. He should leave really, put her out of her misery. Wasn't like he was a joy to be around anyways; most of the time he just moped about, feeling sorry for himself and missing Sam so bad there were occasions that just thinking about him, and where he now was, that made him want to puke with despair! It was hard to see the silver lining in it all. What the hell did he care that the world was saved? Not when he'd sacrificed the only person in the world who'd ever meant a damned to him! Yeah, Lisa meant something; right now she meant everything to him! She'd given him something he'd never had; acceptance. She knew what he was and what he did and yet she'd taken him in with open arms. More-so she hadn't asked him a bunch of questions he'd never have given her a truthful answer to. And she actually seemed to care about him. There were times when he'd catch her gazing at him with what looked like genuine affection; he liked to think maybe she loved him… And he really believed that one day he could love her back… hell, maybe he already did. He sure as hell loved the way she smelled, the way she hummed when she cooked, and without a doubt he loved her arse! He knew he'd do anything for her, and he'd never, ever let anything or anyone harm her… or Ben. But he also knew that she could never fill the void left by Sam. Nobody ever could.

Nope, he was one damned, miserable sod! She really deserved better, and so did Ben. He tried to put a smile on for Ben. He played ball with him, they watched reruns of 'The Twilight Zone' together and the kid was a fiend at video games. If he showed half as much talent with a real gun as he did with the arcade style pistol then… but he was probably never gonna get the chance to do that. Dean tried to do dad kinda stuff with him – not that he actually knew what dad stuff was, so he mostly let Ben do the picking and choosing. Dean didn't figure Lisa would appreciate them doing the kind of things he'd done with his own dad.

He glanced down at his clothes, noting the large blood stains that had coloured his shirt and t-shirt a deep crimson. He sure was a mess! He started to unbutton his shirt because it gave him something else to concentrate on and he needed to examine his ribs. Tugging at the buttons hurt though, because his hands were sore and stiff. Probably easier to just pull the shirt off over his head, if it didn't hurt his side so much to try. It was all too hard!

He remained seated on the toilet seat, trying to stop the persistent flow of blood from his nose only to realise the gash to his forehead that was the main culprit. Definitely need some stitches there! The constant, repetitive drip of blood was almost mesmerising, and thankfully abating. It was going to be a bitch cleaning the blood out of the grout in the tiles though...


	4. Apple Cider

"What are you doing?" she demanded when she returned to find him trying to remove his clothes without her aid. "Just wait and let me help you!" She placed the odd assortment of medical substitutes on the bathroom vanity by his side.

He had been trying to shuck his shirt off, however hadn't apparently noticed that the bottom button remained fastened. She gently took his bloodied hands in her own, noticing for the first time that his knuckles were gashed and swollen, and had him place them back on his lap whilst she unfastened the treacherous button. With a great deal of care she eased the shirt down his arms until she had removed it completely. His previously white T-shirt beneath would be a harder task. Considering it was now blood soaked and ripped she didn't hesitate, or ask his permission, before taking her sewing scissors and cutting the garment away.

She gasped when his grazed and already bruising ribs were revealed. "Oh, god…" Red, angry welts and pale, purpling bruises were scattered in painful clusters across his ribs and continued downwards to mar his abdomen. His hand wrapped protectively over his left side, hiding the worst of the beating from her eyes. "Dean, I really think you should see a doctor. This looks really bad."

"No… its ok. I'm ok." He muttered, pain and exhaustion creeping into his reply.

"Dean what if your ribs are broken?" She continued her argument. "You need an x-ray or something!"

"Wouldn't matter…" He informed her. "Doctors can't do anything anyway; just give me something for the pain. And I got it covered!" he held his hand out, motioning for her to pass him the vodka.

She retrieved the bottle from the vanity and unscrewed the lid for him. "Just go easy on the drink, please?" she passed the Absolut to him reluctantly, but he refused the glass.

"'s all good!" He immediately gulped down a large mouthful of the spirit, followed swiftly by another, or four. The alcohol burned his throat and several painful coughs followed, not in the least convincing Lisa that she shouldn't call an ambulance. "Just… give me a few minutes…" he sighed.

"Here…" She passed him an ice pack (actually a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel). "Will this help?"

"Uhh hah." He accepted the ice pack gratefully and gently pressed it against his throbbing side. He sighed with relief with the marginal amount of reprieve from the pain the icy cold pack supplied. He took another gulp of vodka and then he leaned back against the toilet cistern and waited for the alcohol to take effect.

The bruising concerned her. Maybe not his bruised chest so much, although she seriously suspected he had most likely fractured a couple of ribs. But he was right, unless he started coughing up blood or his breathing deteriorated in any way there was nothing potentially life threatening about a few broken ribs. She was more worried about the mottled contusions across his abdomen. Even she knew he could be bleeding internally. She gently placed her hand over the worst of the bruising. Dean held his breath momentarily, expecting her to prod and poke at the injury, pushing and jabbing at him in examination like his dad or Sam would have done. However for the moment her hand simply rested on his belly, it felt soft and cool over his aching, battered muscles. "Does it hurt?" she queried him with concern.

"Not so bad." He replied, letting the bottle of vodka slip to the ground so that he could place his hand over hers.

"What if… what if you're bleeding…" she muttered anxiously, "…internally?"

"I'm not." He replied, pressing her hand down into his abdomen. He hissed when it hurt more than he'd anticipated. "See, no rigidity." he winced. The action was obviously painful, even if he had managed to prove his point. His stomach was soft and malleable, with no signs of being rigid or distended with blood.

"Yeah, well it had better stay that way!" she warned him, not having to mention the word hospital again for him to know that's exactly where he would end up if she so much as had an inkling anything serious was going on.

After she thoroughly washed and scrubbed her hands clean in the vanity sink, Lisa took a clean wash cloth and soaked it in some warm water. "I guess we should start by getting all this gunk and… stuff off." She suggested, gently pressing the cloth up against his cheek and then proceeded to wipe away the dirt and blood. She was patient and gentle, taking her time so as not to hurt him anymore than necessary. Even when she softly prodded at the already dried up blood across his brow she was tender. He gazed at her from half lidded eyes as she carefully dabbed and wiped at his face. He hissed a little when the cloth grazed over the laceration, however, all in all, the task had almost been pleasurable. Her presence alone was soothing, almost distracting. Nobody had ever fussed over him like this before, not with the same care and tenderness. When he hadn't had to do it himself it had usually been his dad, or Sam doing the patch up job and any wound cleaning usually consisted of a rough scrub with a motel towel, quite often soaked with holy water followed by a good dousing of antiseptic. Sutures would have been quickly thrown in and the whole medical ministrations over and done with within a quarter of an hour.

She grimaced as she gently parted his hair to examine the deep gash across the top of his brow that ran just back of his hairline. "I'm gonna have to disinfect this." she disclosed with measured trepidation, reaching for the antiseptic bottle. "Try and hold still, it's gonna sting…" she warned him as she placed a gauze pad below the laceration to catch the overflow.

"Sonofa…" He hissed with pain when the acerbic liquid was poured over the wound. Lisa held the gauze over the gash until the stinging abated and then she carefully dabbed away the residual liquid and blood.

When she was done she gently prodded at the swelling across his left eye and cheek. Deep purple had already discoloured the inner corner of his eye and the distended upper eyelid. It was sure to be totally bruised up by morning and most likely completely swollen closed. "I should probably get you another ice-pack for your eye."

"Corn would probably go well with the peas." He tried to grin in jest. "But I think you're gonna have to close up the cut first…"

"I have to what?" she queried him hesitantly, not quite sure how he expected her to close the wound, save using duct tape or super glue!

"You're gonna have to stitch it closed." He clarified casually.

"You want me to… what?" she stared at him in disbelief.

"Just sew it up." he repeated. "Use the dental floss."

"Dental floss? You were _serious_ about the floss? Are you nuts?" _maybe he was…_

"What we usually use." He informed her, and lacking that, everyday sewing thread if they were desperate. Dental floss was usually a lot cleaner though, and didn't get stuck in the wound quite so easy.

"I'm not sure if I can do that." She admitted to him.

"Oh, ok." He replied, realising he was asking a lot of her. "It's ok. I can do it."

"What?" she doubted he could brush his own teeth at the moment!

"Just gotta use the mirror…" He shifted forward and tried to stand up only to have her force him back down.

"No you can't. Please Dean, sit down!" she demanded.

"Gotta be done." He told her, his eyes lethargically trying to focus on her.

"Yeah, by a doctor!" Lisa retorted.

"No, no doctor." He maintained his determined effort to avoid the hospital or a doctor at all costs. "Don't need to… I can do it." He almost managed to stand this time, wincing with pain as he leaned forward and tried to shift his weight over his feet.

"Damn it Dean! You always been this stubborn?" she complained, as she prevented him from reaching his goal. Her hand firmly but carefully forced him to sit back down.

"Runs in the family." He replied. At first he grinned with amusement at the jibe, however the still raw and painful memories of Sam coupled with his dad broke through the grogginess of his mind. The loss of his entire remaining family filled him with anguished torment and mourning. _His emotions had somehow escaped from his bricked-up, walled-in, securely locked, 'purely for chick-flick-sentiments' lockbox… Man was he that drunk already? Most likely the concussion…_ He did everything to contain an all out wail of despair. A strangled hiss of pain slipped past his lips when his chest tightened with the growing need to sob. Eventually he groaned, and then coughed with the pain, wincing his face up to hide his sorrow and grief, however he could not contain the small trickle of tears escaping his tightly closed eyes. A number of sobs followed that wrought havoc on his battered ribs and sent a recurring throbbing through his head like a hammer pounding on an anvil. His unveiled emotions and bodily pain overwhelmed him.

"Shit Dean!" she only saw his physical pain and thought it was his agony that had brought him to tears. He'd done well to disguise his distraught, churned up emotions with pain. "Please let me take you to the hospital." Her hand squeezed his knee, hoping he would agree.

He shook his head. "No! I'm ok." he replied adamantly, however she could still see the pain in his expression. "No hospital!" There was a pleading note in his words, mingled with something else… sorrow maybe.

"Ok, fine… no hospital." She submitted. "But, seriously, you want '_me' _to stitch you up?"

"I can do it… if you can't." he informed her.

"Sure you can. Have you taken a look at your hands?" she gently took the ice pack away from his grasp where he had held it against his aching ribs. Then she took his hands in her own and tenderly rubbed her thumb over his bruised and swollen knuckles.

He glanced down to see that his hands were noticeably trembling with pain. His knuckles were gashed open, the wounds raw and stinging. His right index finger was badly swollen; dislocated most likely.

"Ok, maybe not… Lisa, please, I need you to help me." he reached out and clutched her hand in his. "I'll talk you through it, tell you what to do."

"I just don't… I don't know if I can." She admitted.

"Please, '_I'_ know you can do it. I trust you to do this." He pleaded with her. "Please…"

"Ok… I guess!" She conceded. "Where do I start?"

"Thank you, Lis. First, you gotta sterilise the needle in boiling water." He explained.

"Sterilize it?" she muttered, gazing from Dean to the vanity bench. She'd need more boiled water in that case. "Ok, I'll have to get the kettle…" She headed to the kitchen in something of a daze as she contemplated having to suture the inch long gash across his forehead. She really wasn't up for this!

Dean reached down by his side until his finger tips came in contact with the vodka bottle again. He made sure to dose himself with more of the layman's anaesthetic before she came back. The alcohol was finally starting to infuse into his battered muscles, melting away the aches and pains, and the tension. The spirit seeped warmly into his chest, forcing the stabbing, wrenching pain every breath brought with it to abate and quell. He could feel the numbing warmth in his stomach, as it slowly subdued the throbbing ache pounding through his lower abdomen. His mind numbed too and began to meander and become groggy with inebriation. He closed his eyes and didn't entirely fight away the soft nudges of unconsciousness…


	5. Apples and Oranges

.

He startled when she returned, having kind of dozed off, or slowly passed out. However as he jolted back to consciousness the accompanying flinch sent a sudden shock of pain through both his head and his ribs and he dropped the ice pack to the floor.

"Sorry…" she apologised, kneeling by his side. She collected the ice pack from the ground and crunched the semi-defrosted peas around in her hands, distributing the still frozen legumes evenly through the bag. "Are you ok?" she queried with concern as she gently pressed the ice pack back up against his side.

"Hmmm, 'm always… ok." He grinned as his hand slipped over hers where she still held the ice pack.

"Always ok? Sure!" she wasn't convinced of course; he clearly wasn't ok at all. "I've put everything into boiling water and sterilised it…" she really didn't want to ask him what to do next, she already had a fair idea.

"Good… jus' gotta… stitch me… back together." He replied groggily, his voice slurring a little as his eyes blinked in an attempt to remain open.

"Oh god… I really have to stitch you back up?" her stomach was already flipping somersaults at the thought of suturing the gash to his forehead together. "Ok… yeah… fine…" Thankfully it was the only laceration that looked like it needed stitches. She stalled for a while, washing her hands again, scrubbing until she was almost sure she had scrubbed all the skin off. As a precaution she splashed antiseptic into her palm and rubbed the liquid over her hands as well.

It took several attempts before she could thread the needle, her hands were already shaky. _There was no way she could do this…_

"You sterilised the needle?" he asked her somewhat bewildered.

"Yeah, in the boiling water. Remember? Along with the scissors and the tweezers." She replied, somewaht apprehensive about his lack of recollection. She wasn't sure if she should be overly concerned, it could just be because he was drunk, and not necessarily because he was concussed; or maybe it was both?

"Good." He muttered, his eyes slowly starting to flutter closed again.

"Ok, I'm ready." She held the threaded needle up victoriously. "What now?"

"Just sew me up…" he frowned, wondering then when she had changed out of her red dress and into track pants and a sweat shirt.

"Oh god! 'S_ew'_… you… up?" _Sounded easy enough; if they were talking about a tear in a pair of jeans or something!_

"Yeah… it's easy… just put the stitches in close to the edge of the cut. You gotta tie each one off. Put them in, kinda close together. You sure you don't want me to do it instead?" he reached out towards the needle with a trembling hand, still caked in dirt and blood. She hadn't cleaned his hands yet.

"No!" she swiftly withdrew the needle, out of his reach. Last thing he needed was some kind of super bug taking up residence in his head. "You know as well as I do there's no way you're up to stitching yourself up! I'll do it. I just need to… just give me a minute… I'll do it." She glanced at the almost empty bottle of vodka clasped in his other hand and contemplated taking a swig herself, just to calm her nerves. And then she tried to remember how much had been in it to start of with. Three quarters full maybe? With the way his eyes rolled about in his head and he occasionally listed sideways she knew he was obviously beyond tipsy. Or really, really concussed…

But evidentially not quite drunk enough.

He hissed with pain when she punctured the raw ragged flesh at the edge of the gash to his brow for the first time with the needle. She was surprised by the resistance she felt as she forced the needle through the layers of skin and pulled the floss through. She cringed at the sight of the flesh tugging at the gash, opening the wound up like a gapping, gory maw.

Dean hissed sharply, clutching at his battered ribs as pain spiked both through his forehead and through his side.

"Oh, God." She moaned, visibly paling at the task. "I'm sorry."

"'s ok. I'm ok." He reassured her, but he hissed with pain once again as she inserted the needle for a second time to close the wound. "Shit… sonofabitch!"

Lisa gasped with dread in response, looking away from his pain streaked face with guilt. "Sorry." she begged for his forgiveness.

"No, it's ok." He gulped down another mouthful of vodka, grimacing with the taste… or the pain. "Gotta be done." He motioned for her to continue.

She took twice as long to insert the next couple of stitches, terrified of hurting him further. He failed to muffle the numerous, long moans that escaped his lips in response to the drawn out, mini-torturous task.

"Dean, I'm so sorry!" she was close to tears with guilt for having to hurt him like she was.

"'s ok! Really. Keep going." He groaned, wishing she could just hurry up and get the job done, thinking maybe he really should have done the sutures himself. For all her care and concern, the longer she took the longer he had to endure the repeated stabs of pain each suture inflicted.

Her hands trembled so much with the next stitch that the needle tugged at the wound. Dean flinched with the pain, causing the needle to completely rip through the flesh and tear another smaller gash into the laceration. He yelped in agony, almost baulking off the toilet seat. "Shit! God damned... sonofabitch!" he ground out through tightly clenched teeth, panting through the painful sting tearing its way through his forehead.

"Oh God… Dean…" Lisa recoiled with regret. "I'm so, so sorr…"

"Don't say it!" he scolded her. "Just don't! Please. Don't tell me you're sorry again!"

She was almost sobbing again. "But… I am."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for." He scowled in pain as he spoke, scrunching his eyes closed as fresh blood once again streamed down from the wound to blind him.

"I'm hurting you…" She explained ruefully.

"You didn't hurt me," he clarified, "you're helping to fix me." And he meant that in a much broader concept than the simple remark that it was.

"And I'm doing a real bang up job of it!" she sighed.

"Lis, I'm ok. You're doing great!" he commended her. "But look, really, if you can't keep going, you don't have to. I can finish it of. I've done this a hundred times before!" he reassured her. If only he had a hope of holding the needle in his battered hands…

"No, seriously, you can't" she said sternly. She could see in his pained expression that he was far too dazed, or too drunk, for her to even consider letting him. And his hands were a real mess, she doubted he could even make a fist, what with the swelling and all, let alone have the dexterity to do the sutures himself. "I'll do it…"

As Lisa attempted to dab away the fresh blood trickling down from the wound, Dean sought to drown the pain away with more vodka. Their hands clashed somewhere in between…

"Don't say it!" he quickly interrupted her, before she could apologise again, whilst swiftly throwing back a much needed, very large gulp of vodka.

"Ok, ok." She gently pressed a gauze pad to the wound, soaking up the new crimson stream. Her free hand rested on the side of his face and her thumb gently stroked his cheek. He wasn't sure she even knew she was doing it.

He gazed at her for a while, from beneath weary eyelids. He remained almost motionless, locked in hazy contemplation of her. There was a tenderness about her, a mothering nature that he had never seen in her before. In the short time he'd been there, not even Ben had gotten himself into any kind of trouble that would warrant her maternal attentions. And most of his recollections of her were from their first 'union', before she even was a mother. And there was definitely no 'mothering' happening back then! It was all new to him; Sam and his dad were hardly going to 'kiss the boo-boos' away! _And heaven help them if they ever tried!_ It was more important to stop a persistent bleed, by way of sutures or cauterisation, or manipulate a dislocation back into place, even align fractured bones if it was necessary. It certainly didn't matter if it hurt! He was no sissy-girl in the pain department, he could cope. He could damned well _'suck the pain up' _just like his dad had taught him – no complaints, no fuss, no 'sorrys' about it. Yet, here he was, being pandered and cared for. And he liked it! He was even a little jealous of Ben because he had grown up with it… and Dean hadn't. He'd never had anyone there to 'make it all better' with just a kiss or a hug. Not since his mom…

They didn't exchange any words for several minutes as Lisa waited for the wound to stop bleeding. Somewhere along the way she had him hold the gauze to his brow so she could check his ribs. She reshuffled the frozen peas about in the bag ensuring they would remain icy cold against his side. Then she carefully wrapped the frozen peas back up in the tea towel and tenderly placed them back against his chest. She made no attempt to apologise when he reacted to the slight pressure on his fractured ribs, with a sharp intake of breath whilst simultaneously flinching away from the contact.

"Is it nearly done?" he eventually asked her of the sutures.

"No." she replied softly, still loathing the task. Even though she had already carefully thrown a few of sutures in, it did not make putting any more in, any easier… not at all! "I think it'll need a couple more."

"You got a mirror so I can see?" he requested, hoping her inexperience wasn't going to mean he'd have to redo the sutures himself, or face resembling Frankenstein's monster for the rest of his life.

She rummaged about in the vanity drawer until she found one. "Here." She held the small make-up mirror over the gash so that he could see it for himself.

"Wow. You've done a good job. Looks good." He admitted… well, aside from the new, still bleeding tear. "Two more should do it." He agreed with her.

"You ready then?" she queried holding up the needle and floss.

"Yeah. Let's get this over with." He replied.

She inserted two more sutures, a little quicker than the first few and without further drama. "Ok. It's done." She informed him, dabbing at the wound with gauze to soak up what little blood still oozed from the suture incisions.

"Thank you." He muttered as she started to toss the blood soaked gauze pads into the trash can beneath the vanity. "I knew you could do it."

She gave him an odd stare in response. She was obviously very uncomfortable with the whole incident. "Its ok." she eventually replied. "Let's get the rest of you cleaned up."

She refreshed the ruddy, pink stained water in her bowl with what was left of the boiled water in the kettle, having now cooled to a comfortable temperature. After adding a liberal measure of antiseptic she set about soaking and cleaning his abused hands. The gashes turned out to be rather minor, however his right hand was quite swollen across the knuckles. After a rudimentary examination, that involved some prodding and poking and asking him to clench and extend his fingers he managed to reassure her nothing was broken, although his right index finger was clearly dislocated. Dean simply looked at the distended swelling and the slightly askew finger and 'huh'-ed. Then he grabbed the injured digit, tugged on it and quickly popped it back into place.

After smearing antibacterial cream across the gashes, Lisa carefully wrapped and bandaged both his hands. She had him hold the ice pack over the worst of the swelling whilst she dabbed at numerous other grazes and gashes, littering his face, his torso, and his elbows with the antiseptic. With firm urging she also managed to coerce him into dropping his jeans so that she could tend to several grazes across his knees and shins.

"Ok, I think we're all done." She said as she placed sticky plaster over the bleeding abrasions across his knees. She was exhausted by the task, heaven only knew how ragged out Dean must be feeling! He certainly looked worn out, beaten to hell… and drunk as a skunk! He was practically dead on his feet. It killed her to see him this way. _"God I hope I never have to do this again…"_ she muttered to herself, not really intending Dean to over hear her. Perhaps he wasn't quite so out of it after all…

"I'm sorry…" he muttered.

"No more 'sorrys' tonight, remember!" She replied. "Come on, let me help you up, I think you should lay down and get some rest." she suggested.

"Yeah… thank you Lis." He sighed, weary with pain and exhaustion. Hopefully a good night's sleep would ease the discomfort and agony of his battle wounds. "Sounds good, but really… I'm ok."

"I've just had to stitch you back together Dean. Your ribs are probably broken and you're a mess of bruises and grazes! Not to mention you can hardly see straight. You are '_not'_ ok." She scolded him. He could give up the deception now – she'd seen the full extent of the damage.

"I'm always ok!" he grinned with befuddled pride not waiting for her to help him up. Instead he eased himself upwards, perhaps a little too fast, with one hand wrapped firmly over his ribs and the other placed on the cistern to help steady himself. The change in elevation flooded his already pounding head with a torrent of numbness. Suddenly his sense of equilibrium faltered and the world seemed to tilt awkwardly to the right.

"Just wait! Let me help you…" she insisted as he staggered to the side. She slipped her arm behind his back and held him close.

"Mmm ok." He drawled almost incoherently. "Mmm good… Mmm… mmmaybe not…" His knees gave way and oblivion snatched away his consciousness.

She only just caught him and saved him from toppling head long into the bathtub, however she struggled with his weight, pulling him roughly towards her to avert him injuring himself any more than he already was. They went down together and he collapsed on top of her, his head slammed into the floor with a sickening thud…

.


	6. 99 Bottles of Apple Wine on the Wall

.

"Oh God!" Lisa choked as her heart thumped so hard it felt like it was about to escape out of her mouth.

Dean lay bonelessly across her waist, completely out cold. She eased herself out from beneath his lifeless weight. He moaned softly when she rolled him onto the floor, however he did not wake.

"Dean!" She shook him gently, trying to rouse him back to life. She managed to turn him onto his side, into a recovery position, and checked that he was still breathing unhindered; which he was, thankfully. Although she suspected he'd most certainly jostled his ribs, as each exhale was now tagged with a soft moan. She inspected his face for any kind of reaction to her demands as she gently tapped his cheek. His eyelids begrudgingly fluttered, but still refused to open. He'd obviously hit his head when he fell. He'd split his lower lip open and given himself a fat upper lip and his nose was now bleeding. But the gash to his forehead was thankfully still held neatly together by her well implemented sutures. Even so, he remained unconscious. Her concerns skyrocketed. The urge to call an ambulance was only stalled by Dean's earlier adamant pleas for her not to. But she'd seen his injuries now, and there was nothing at all 'unexplainable' about them! With his now drunken state she could probably just say he fell… down the stairs… or something. Of course explaining the newly inserted, green, dental-floss sutures could prove challenging.

"Dean, wake up!" she pleaded, as fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. She shook him a little rougher this time, in desperation, that was bordering on terror.

He moaned as his battered body was jostled, flinging his arm out protectively, if not a little defensively, as his face winced with pain. It took a few seconds for him to realise that he wasn't in any immediate danger. "Lisss…" he mumbled when his eyes slowly peeled open and stayed focused long enough for him to gaze at her.

"Dean!" she exclaimed with relief when he finally recognised her. "Are you…"

"Mmm ok…" seemed to roll off his tongue in a well practiced response. "I'm good!" He shifted a little, his hand coming up to hover over his newly abused face.

He managed, with her help, to raise his battered body up into a sitting position. Amongst the accompanying string of cussing and expletives, he did, however, manage to laugh at himself, briefly. _'Damn it, Winchester!_ _Went down like a freaking Led Zeppelin!'_ he muttered to himself. (Ha, he could still pull a joke!) But he had certainly crashed and burned! Possibly even exploded!

Yep, he was definitely drunk... and concussed! Made for a good combination… Not! He was feeling all hazy and dizzy again... and nauseous. _Please, please don't puke again!_

"Damn it Dean, enough is enough! This time I've gotta call an ambulance!" She tried, unsuccessfully to stifle the sobs.

"No, please. Not gonna go… to the… hospital." His eyes blinked open and stared at her, pleading with her not to force the issue. "Can't go... won't!"

Lisa gazed back at him, her eyes teary once more. Her chin was trembling and she sniffed back a sob. There was fear and concern hidden in her expression. She went very quiet, and he could see by her expression that she wanted to say something to him, but just couldn't seem to find the right words.

"Are you ok?" Dean asked her.

"Me? Am '_I_' ok?" she replied softly, rolling her eyes in dismay. "I'm not the one bleeding all over the bathroom floor, Dean, or trying to face plant into the bath tub!"

"I'm sorry…" he replied, wiping at his nose. "I'll clean up the blood… Promise."

"It's not that, Dean." she grimaced struggling to subdue the tears. "It's '_all'_ this… it's you, Dean."

"Oh…" He should have seen this coming. At least she obviously wasn't going with the cliché _'It's not you, it's me'_ line. "You want me to leave?"

"What? No!" She seemed pretty adamant. "I want you here and I want you to stay… it's just…" The dam broke and the tears came, streaming down her cheeks as her bottom lip began to quiver.

"Lisa, what is it?" he queried her, reaching out to cup her face in his hand. He ran his thumb gently across her tear-damp cheek bone, trying to fathom the gist of her sudden anguish.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I thought I could do this…" She allowed her face to nestle into his hand, seeking comfort in his touch. "But I can't handle feeling this helpless… and useless… And seeing you like this… all busted up and bleeding! Stitching you back together… God… It makes me feel sick."

"You're not gonna hurl are you?" he queried her. He had first dibs on the toilet for that! He should have figured the makeshift medical ministrations, and the blood and all would make her feel nauseous. He was certainly feeling a few shades greener!

"No, Dean, not that kind of sick…" she sighed, her hand shadowing his across her cheek.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let you do the stitches." he muttered, regretting not having insisted he do them himself.

"Exactly!" she sighed. She picked up the wash cloth and started to wipe away the latest blood instalment for the evening. She dabbed gently at his nose and split lip. "It shouldn't be like this Dean… this isn't something I should have to do! And certainly not something you should be doing either! You shouldn't even know how to do this kind of stuff! Not unless you have the letters M.D. after your name!"

"I'm sorry, Lis…" He wasn't quite sure for what though, except that he was sorry he had distressed her so much. "Just can't go to the hospital…"

"Damn it Dean… that's not it." she sighed, rinsing the cloth out and dabbing at his persistent nose bleed. "Dean, I'm sorry." She paused, sighing in deliberation. "I promised myself I wouldn't ask this of you… but I can't… Dean, I just… I can't do this…"

"Huh?" he moaned, completely clueless, he'd already told her he was ok.

"Dean, I don't…" _It was harder than she though_. "I don't want you to do this anymore." _There, she'd said it out loud!_

"Do what?" he repeated, running the conversation over in his mind, wondering just where he'd lost her.

"I know it's what you do, but can't it just be what you '_did_'?" she pleaded with all her heart. "Please, not just for me, or Ben… but for you. You don't deserve this… all the lies, the scams, living out of a suitcase… the injuries and the pain, the loss… and God all the blood!"

"What?" The vodka and the concussion must really be screwing up his comprehension skills!

"It's just that… I can't be worrying about you every time you go out that door, wondering if you'll ever come back, or in what state." She began to sob again. "It's not fair on me or Ben. He idolises you Dean, like a… like a _dad_. Have you even thought about what it would do to him if anything ever happened to you?"

"Huh?" he stammered. "I don't understand. "

She realised then, that with all her side stepping and avoidance of her real concerns she was only confusing him entirely. "Please, Dean, I want you make this your last hunt."

He'd already promised Sam he'd give up the hunt. And now Lisa was asking him the same thing. Had it really been that bad an occupation? Ok, so the pay sucked out loud, and so did the hours! There was no thanks, no gratitude and certainly no dental or medical plans thrown in! But it was the only thing he knew how to do. The only thing he was actually good at. And aside from loosing Sam, it was the hardest thing he'd ever had to give up. And heaven only knew, he'd given up heaps! But he'd promised Sammy, and he was trying damned hard. "What hunt?"

"I've seen the way some news stories catch your interest, the way you circle obituaries in the news paper…" she clarified. And she had complete faith in the fact that she could put her life in his hands. He'd never let anything happen to her, or Ben. Not ever. He'd never let any kind of creature get near them, ever again. But it didn't stop her wanting him to give it all up. "Dean please tell me you'll stop hunting."

"But I didn't!" he started to explain. "I haven't…"

"Damn it Dean, I can't do this. Please you have to stop." Lisa begged, slamming the wash cloth into the water basin, splashing crimson stained water onto the floor. "Isn't it enough that you've already lost Sam? Do we have to loose you too?"

"Sam?" Dean gazed at her… _how could she know?_ Did she also know that Sam had asked him, no made him promise, that he'd give up the hunt? He struggled to keep the tears at bay. In his battered state and with his weakened emotions the mere mention of Sam's… _death_… caught him with his defences down.

"Don't tell me something hasn't happened to him!" She snapped at Dean. "And don't tell me it had nothing to do with a hunt!"

_Man if only she knew!_

"No… Sam... he... he had no choice." He mumbled, choked up with raw emotions. His heart ached with the memory of Sam's final moments, and for knowing where he was now.

"Which is exactly why I want you to stop. I want you to stop hunting." She gazed into his eyes, silently pleading with him to comply with her wishes.

"But Lisa, really. _I didn't go hunting!_" he admitted to her. Because he'd already promised Sam he wouldn't. "This wasn't from a hunt." He waved his hand over his ribs, indicating his injuries.

She paused for a while, contemplating his response. "Then what, the hell, happened to you?" She demanded.

For a moment he looked a little sheepish, perhaps even ashamed, before replying. "A bunch of guys tried to steal my car while I was in the Bottle Shop… and I couldn't let them touch my Baby!" he sighed forlornly.

"Oh…" she sighed in astonishment, feeling instantly guilty for her hasty and imprudent assumptions and accusations. "Your 'Baby'."

"… and, I, umm… I think maybe… I dropped the wine." he sighed. It had been a nice one too, a little pricier than the rest, but he knew it was her favourite.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~oooOOOooo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_._

_Although this is actually where this fic originally ended, I couldn't quite leave well enough alone… so there will be just one more chapter._

_Thanks for reading so far, I hope you'll come back for the conclusion._

_chrissymi :)_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~oooOOOooo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_Thank you, to those of you who have put this story on your Alert list, its always nice to know somebody is not only prepared, but actually eager to come back for another chapter. I hope it will not disappoint! And its perhaps even more encouraging when you find one of your fics listed in somebody's Favourite List as well! _

_Although I haven't (and probably won't) contact you all personally, I have eagerly been to all your Profile sites, and even if there is nothing written there about you, I love reading your fics! And even if you don't write yourself, I quite enjoy poking around amongst your Favourite Writers and Stories too, because I find the most delicious fics this way! _

_Thank you so much for reading mine!_

_I hope you won't mind me mentioning you in particular, BranchSuper, but I love your profile page! It is a fabulous resource for those who like to write! BranchSuper mentions a heap of dos and don'ts, common spelling errors, word mix ups… let's just say a heap of stuff a lot of writers get wrong (and that I really, really hope I haven't)! So if you have the time; read and learn (and maybe keep a copy for future reference like I did… still hoping BranchSuper won't mind!) _

_Thank you BranchSuper. You should probably volunteer to be a Beta!_

_And Thank you also to _CriesofCapricorn_ and _love14_ for your reviews. Sorry I haven't replied to you individually, it's been a while since I was last madly typing out a fic to post and I'm not entirely sure I remember how to respond personally any more. So: Thank You!_

_And an extra special thanks to __CriesofCapricorn __who seems to have stuck with this short (could probably have been a one-shot) fic from the very start. I'm sorry that you found some typos (and yes, they are all my own). BranchSuper is not my Beta! I know I'm guilty of skipping the occasional coma, but I like to think I make up for it by, perhaps,, over using them elsewhere,,, (and looking at this Author's note, I may possibly be guilty of abusing the everyday bracket as well!) But I promise I did a spell-check before posting and I'm pretty sure the only spelling mistakes written were actually intended. (They should only appear in oral quotes, as an indication of the character's verbal expression, and possibly in the context of a character's thoughts, but hopefully not in the general body of text.) As for grammatical faux pas, sorry, they probably have something to do with the somewhat idiosyncratic and quirky (verging on rambling) style in which I occasionally write… and think. (But hell, it makes sense to me!) Of course most of this was written well past the witching hour, by which stage the old grey matter tends to get a little sleep-weary pickled and mind-numbingly befuddled. But when else should one write? Surely midnight and beyond is most appropriate, because isn't that when the truly Supernatural really like to come out and play? (And besides, who has time during daylight hours?)_

_P.S. It appears that sometimes I also like to, not only _start_ a sentence, but also a _whole_ paragraph, with the word 'And', and I probably tend to over use the notion of an ellipses (leaving out an entire word and/or replacing such word with '…') even though I tend to use it more as a pause, or breathing space in which to draw certain implied conclusions... _

_BranchSuper is probably pulling out his/her hair as I write!_

_But that's me!_

_chrissymi_


	7. Apple of my Eye

_._

"Oh my God! You mean someone… someone '_human'_… did this to you?" Lisa exclaimed when she realized that it hadn't been anything supernatural behind it at all.

"There were at least four of them!" Dean objected, feeling that she had underrated his ability to hold his own in any confrontation.

"We should call the police!" she said it before her brain had actually caught up with her mouth.

"What? No! No, no, no…" Dean stated in no uncertain terms. Not that Lisa knew he was wanted – in who knew how many States – for murder, armed robbery and impersonating any number of officers of the law. And there was the fact that he was technically dead – quite possibly a few times over by now! And all going well, he hoped she'd never find out.

"Oh, of course…" she sighed, because she did know about the insurance scams and credit card fraud. She'd come across a half dozen of his fake IDs, some credit cards and a health insurance card in the laundry once, when he'd forgotten they had been in one of his jacket pockets. She'd discovered his lock pick tools in his toiletry bag and once she'd caught a glimpse of his small arsenal (that was still safely tucked away in the Impala's boot) when he hadn't realised she was there. But it didn't take a rocket scientist to realise he'd had to survive somehow. She knew he wouldn't have been able to hold down a regular job and hunt at the same time, and she also knew it was unlikely anybody would be paying him for his services. Hell, most people wouldn't even know he'd been there, lurking in some shadow, to save their normal, unsuspecting arse. But he still had to eat, and he had to have some place to sleep, and even though she'd once seen him hustle pool, he could hardly survive on it. So yeah, she knew about the fraud, and stuff...

And if she really though hard about it, she could probably figure out for herself that his secret stash of weapons meant that he really was killing things… things that may once have been human, or masqueraded as human, and some who still were human but were now possessed. It was simply too mind blowing! She stopped herself from contemplating exactly what he did. She had already decided that she really didn't want to know…

But it made her realise just how different he was. He had always lived on the edge of normal, like the creatures he hunted; he was an outsider, looking in. The only time he was ever normal, at least after his mother had died, was only when he was pretending. She suddenly admired his attempts to live her kind of 'normal' Apple Pie life so much more. Only now, her kind of 'normal' had just thumped the living daylights out of him.

"But they shouldn't be allowed to get away with this! They could have killed you!" He may be able to protect her from the supernatural, but surely she should be able to help him find retribution for damages received from the 'normal'!

"Don't worry, they got what they deserved." He assured her. "Pretty sure they'll think twice about car jacking somebody else's car."

"Oh…" Although in reality she already knew he would have given far worse than he received. There was no way he'd ever let anyone steal his car. Certainly hadn't this time, because he had come home in his 'Baby'. The Impala was now parked, somewhat askew, half way onto the front lawn, only just having missed knocking over her letter box.

Dean grunted a little as he tried to stand up again. "Police aren't likely to do much about it anyway." he muttered, wincing as his ribs protested the move. "I'm sorry about dinner, though."

Lisa slipped her hand under his arm and helped him to stand. This time Dean accepted her assistance, even letting her take some of his weight as she helped guide him to his feet. She wasn't sure just how to keep a firm grip upon him or where to hold him though, without aggravating his injuries. He was stripped down to just his boxers, and it left none of his injuries to the imagination. His torso was a mess of angry, red welts, abrasions and a mass of bruises. She could feel his whole body trembling, ever so slightly, under her touch.

"Don't worry about dinner." she replied, tucking her arm under his to help steady him. "Arthur's a bit of a pompous gas-bag anyway. We probably would have spent the whole night listening to how great he thought he was. He would have bored you to sleep."

"Yeah? Speaking of sleep… I really think I'm ready to hit the sack now." Dean muttered, feeling all the weariness of his battered body as he slowly succumbed to the pain and exhaustion of his injuries. Maybe he was starting to sober up. He shifted forwards, once he felt confident in his ability to get one foot in front of the other, without face-planting… again

"But you shouldn't sleep with a head injury, should you?" Her anxiety jacked up a little more. He probably shouldn't have consumed quite so much alcohol either... _What if he died in his sleep!_

"I'm ok, Lisa." Dean insisted even though his head was still spinning, and thumping out some Marching Band beat. Maybe he was still drunk after all. "It's no great biggie!"

Lisa wasn't so sure. She stared at him with an expression that said far more than her brief words: she didn't believe him for a second. "So you keep saying and yet, you just _feinted_!"

"Feinted?" he grunted in incredulity. "No. I don't _feint_! Ever_!_"

"I think your face may debate that." She huffed.

Dean poked at his swollen lip, thankful that he hadn't managed to knock his teeth out. "Just stood up too fast…" he justified, "I didn't… I just…"

"Feinted?" She finished his meandering defence for him. But then she knew he would probably shrug her concerns off, play all 'I'm ok' and deny that anything was wrong.

"No!" he sighed softly, but she still wasn't buying it. "Ok… maybe I kind of… _blacked out_. But just for a second!" _Probably just drank too much…_

"Exactly!" she snapped at him. "And you went down pretty hard! But even before that, judging by the state of your face, and that gash, you must have hit your head pretty hard on something!" _Like some guy's fist maybe, or a boot, maybe the ground, or the car._ "I mean feinting, sorry – '_passing out' –_ can't be a good sign. What if… I mean… you could have bleeding on the brain, or something?"

"I'm ok, Lis, really." He tried to convince her, but decided against blaming it on the vodka. She'd only blame herself for letting him get plastered, and therefore for his 'black out'.

"But, how do you know, for sure?" Her face seemed pale in the hallway lighting. She bit on her lip, illustrating her obvious concerns.

Dean gave her what sounded like a soft chuckle. "Dean Winchester, born January 24th, 1979 in Lawrence Kansas." he said with all seriousness. "Today is Friday and we're in Cicero, Indiana."

"What?" She queried him; _was he rambling?_ That could not be a good sign!

"Standard Concussion Questions." He replied. "Name, date of birth, place of birth, day of the week and where we are now." Or at least they were his dad's archetypal queries, maybe not quite Sam's usual. The younger Winchester's questions were more on the creative side like; 'First line of the Rituale Romanum?' or 'What goes into a hex bag to ward off a poltergeist?' And then sometimes Sam would screw around with him, depending on his particular mood. If the over-emotional Sasquatch had a chip on his shoulder, and was shitty with him, because maybe he'd taken a blow most likely headed Sam's way, then the before mentioned Sasquatch would always ask unanswerable questions like; 'Who was the fifth president?' or 'Who won Wimbledon in 2005?' or worse 'What's the square root of 169?' Then again, Dean always liked that one; it would make him snort with laughter as lurid responses crammed his head that had nothing to do with numerals; probably why Sam so often asked him that one in the first place! And when Sam was all emo-hyped and actually sympathetic, maybe a little guilty, he'd include questions about AC/DC, Metallica or Zeppelin; stuff Dean could answer even if he was comatose!

"Oh." She'd seen something like that on TV, although she wasn't really sure why the questions were so important. "And what does that mean?"

"Means I'm ok, Lisa, really." If Sam had been there he could have told her just that. "I'm not gonna die from some massive brain haemorrhage." Dean explained as they slowly made their way into the bedroom. "Take more than a bump to the head to take down Dean Winchester! Besides, I got a hard head…"

_And, because he knew, without a doubt, that slipping slowly into a coma and then death, would be far too good for him. For letting Sam jump into the pit he deserved Hell Hounds… and blood and guts and gore… he deserved to be mauled and eviscerated… he deserved the pain and the torture… and he deserved to go back to Hell!_

She nodded, reluctantly accepting his reasoning. But then who was she to dispute the notion? He was still the only one in the room with any kind of experience in Post Bashing Trauma, even of the Grand Theft Auto type.

"Ok then… let's get you into bed." She advocated as she pulled back the covers.

"You know, normally I'd take that as an invitation." He muttered.

"Normally, it probably would have been." She grinned mischievously at him as she eased him down to sit on the bed.

_Only things weren't exactly normal..._

"Are you teasing?" He rejoined and then hissed with pain when his ribs objected to his shift in posture. He muttered a few explicit complaints under his breath as he wrapped his arm protectively over his side. "Damn it!" he grunted once he had caught his breath again.

"Are you ok? You're not gonna '_feint__'_ again, are you?" she queried, perhaps teasing just a little.

"Mmm funny!" he grinned, or possibly grimaced, once he was sitting. "Mmm ok, just give me a second."

He stopped her when she tried to help him lift his legs up onto the mattress. She knelt in front of him, waiting for him to explain his hesitation, hoping he didn't have to vomit, or really was on the verge of 'passing out' again. However he didn't say anything for a while, he simply reached out to her and slipped his bandaged hand across her face until it nestled beneath her ear and then his thumb stroked her cheek. He gazed at her for quite some time until he eventually smiled at her.

"Thank you, Lis." He said softly, his gratitude was apparent in his soulful expression.

"Yeah, you're welcome." She nodded. "Only, please don't make a habit of it!"

"I'll try not to." His hand tenderly shadowed her cheek, where he continued to run his thumb over her smooth, mascara streaked skin. "I don't deserve you, you know." He muttered.

She shook her head. There were a lot of things he didn't deserve. His whole damned life for one; the constant sacrifices, the ingratitude for his gallant deeds, the loss and the pain, the never ending injuries, the list was pretty much endless… but that he didn't deserve her, or the Apple Pie life she had to offer him was not one of them. "No, you deserve so much better." She informed him.

His eyes dropped then, in disbelief and his lip trembled with uncertainty. She realised that he really didn't think that he deserved anything good in life. It broke her heart to see him so… damaged.

"No." he eventually stammered. "No, I don't."

"Yes, you do!" she replied as her hands tenderly cradled his face. "You're a real, live Hero, Dean; like a cowboy in a white hat, or a knight in shinning armour… only you, you're a rogue in a black Chevy Impala. You save people, lots of people! You've sacrificed so much, and heaven only knows you've lost even more. What you do is amazing. You hurt and you bleed, and you never ask for anything in return! You deserve better because you're a good man, Dean Winchester, and you do good things."

"Not everything I do is good…" he admitted, he'd done a lot of bad things… very, very bad. Like letting his brother sacrifice himself… to Lucifer. Let him jump straight into Hell…

"Maybe… but then I'm sure you did it for a good reason." She whispered.

Dean shook his head. _The reason was not good enough! Not by far! Sam didn't deserve Hell and he should have stopped him from making that sacrifice! And for that reason alone, if for no other, he didn't deserve to now have Lisa, and he certainly didn't deserve to be living the kind of Apple Pie life that Sam deserved! _

"No, it should never have happened… Sam's gone and… it was all my fault. Everything was…" he whispered,

"What's your fault, Dean?" she queried him as she finally managed to lever his legs up onto the bed and encouraged him to lie back on the small mountain of pillows she'd placed behind him.

"Sammy… I should have stopped him, but I didn't." Tears welled up in his eyes and slowly trickled down his cheeks. "Now he's… he's gone."

"He's gone?" She figured he meant dead, but just couldn't actually say it. But, she still clung to the hope that maybe Sam was just in Ohio or something…

Dean nodded his head, but didn't clarify the statement. "I started it… I started everything."

"Started what Dean?" she queried.

He scrunched his eyes up to try and dampen the heartache. Maybe it was the vodka, maybe it was the pain and the exhaustion, but something about his churning emotions stripped away his rock-solid, defensive façades. He suddenly felt like he was made of glass; not just fragile and breakable, but completely transparent. It was as if she could see right in to his soul and suddenly he felt the need to reveal everything to her.

"The Apocalypse." Dean almost choked on the heart wrenching admission.

"The Apocalypse?" she repeated, just to be sure she'd heard right. Surely the Apocalypse, Judgement Day, and all that, only existed in the writings of the Bible… as some metaphor or something. Or in works of fiction… science fiction.

"I broke the first seal." He whispered softly.

"You broke what?" she really had no idea what he was talking about. She didn't need to know, was quite happy to remain oblivious to the horrors of his life. But she could see he needed to tell her. He needed her to understand what had happened. Perhaps he was expecting her to reject him, to condemn him just as he had already done to himself.

"The first seal… if I hadn't been so weak, then none of this would ever have happened." His eyes had a degree of pleading in them, for her to comprehend what had happened without him having to put his actions into words. But she was completely perplexed by his statement.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I don't understand." She admitted, tenderly running her hand through his hair. She wished she understood, she really did. "Dean, is Sam… is he… dead?" She whispered. She sought to clarify the statement; there had already been too many misunderstandings already for the night.

Dean nodded ever so slightly. "Umm… yeah, kinda, I guess… I don't really know." And he didn't. Sam was definitely in Hell, the ground had opened up and Sam had jumped in… and he'd pulled Adam in after him. Adam, the brother he'd never even known he'd had! Adam had actually died before Dean ever got a chance to meet him. He wasn't even sure it really was Adam, could just have been that dick-angel Michael just using him as a meat suit. Guess he'll never know now, because in one foul swoop he'd lost them both! But he wasn't entirely sure they had actually died. Not like Dean had when he was sent to hell; ripped apart by Lilith's hell hounds. So maybe 'dead' wasn't really the best term. Sam and Adam were certainly 'gone' though!

But Sam had died… such a long time ago, in a deserted ghost town, called Cold Oak. And that's kind of where Dean started to reveal his heart-breaking story…

Dean told Lisa all about his deal with Lilith to save Sam. He left out the more gory details though, like the hell hounds and all his recollections of Hell. He spoke to her about Castiel, Zachariah and Uriel (but not so much about Anna). He even told her about Chuck. And he explained about the seals and Lucifer and Michael. He told her about Sam and Adam, with as much truth as he thought she could handle.

Lisa listened to his tale, with sympathy and compassion, if not with awe and horror. She ran her fingers over the hand-shaped scar across his shoulder, astounded by the fact that he had actually been pulled out of Hell by an Angel.

"But if this Angel, Castiel, pulled you out… why can't he pull Sam out too?" She asked in all honesty.

Dean's face grew teary again. "I don't know. I've tried to ask him to… begged him even. I've even tried praying to him… but it seems Cas isn't answering me anymore. I guess I'm just not that important any longer."

But she realised just how special a man he was. A man who needed to find his place in the world once more, now that everything he had ever held dear had been taken away from him. A man who needed to be accepted and loved for the man that he was; a hunter, and a damaged one at that. She snuggled up next to him, leaning her cheek against his shoulder and draped her arm carefully across his chest.

When she didn't run from him, screaming accusations of lunacy or insanity Dean relaxed into her embrace.

After several minutes of silence between them, she sat up beside him. Her hands tenderly cupped his cheeks and she turned his face towards hers until he gazed back at her. He frowned a little, as she leaned in close to him and then her lips touched his and she kissed him, tenderly and lovingly. After a few seconds he returned her amorous kiss. She was surprised to find that the taste of blood on his lip was oddly indicative of him.

"I love you Dean Winchester…" she whispered to him as she pulled away.

His mouth dropped open in astonishment. Her softly spoken sentiment opened a flood gate of emotions. Tears welled in his eyes and flowed freely down his cheeks. Who'd have thought that a kiss really could make all the 'boo-boos' feel better, or fill his heart with warmth and loving!

He may have gaped and grimaced a few times, probably looked something like a goldfish, however he couldn't find any words to describe the overwhelming emotions that were racing through his mind; bewilderment, awe, surprise, perplexity, disbelief, relief… _He was actually loved!_ A sentiment stirred deep within him, an emotion he'd never felt before, at least not for a woman. He wasn't entirely sure it was love… but it damned well came close!

She didn't need him to reciprocate her admission. She just needed him to know how she felt.

She studied his battered face; her eyes ran over the now sutured gash, neatly held together with green dental floss, quite possibly mint flavoured. She examined the collection of small grazes and red welts across his torso, which would surely bruise up over the next few days; his puffy, swollen eye certainly would. His nose looked a little swollen too, but she wasn't entirely sure if it was from the beating he'd copped, or his subsequent face plant, at least it had stopped bleeding. His upper lip was freakishly distended and blood continued to well up at the split in his lower lip as he spoke, and he possibly had a gash inside his cheek because there were still traces of blood in his mouth. His eyes lethargically attempted to keep her in focus, either because of the concussion or the vodka. She made a mental note to herself to give him a couple of paracetamol before he fell asleep: if for no other reason they would probably help with the hangover he'd have once he sobered up again. But above all else she noticed his lop-sided grin. For the first time his smile seemed genuine.

After alleviating himself of his heart's weighty burden, Dean started to feel whole again. Putting his loss and heartache into words, and sharing his pain with Lisa gave him a closure he had so far struggled to find on his own. For the first time, in a very long time, he felt that he could leave his past behind him. He could start again.

They spent the entire night wrapped in each others arms, until the sun's first rays of light heralded the dawn of a new day. They simply lay together, entwined in a comforting embrace, and basked in their mutual affections. Dean gazed at Lisa with renewed emotion. He savoured the warmth oozing from his heart and filling his entire body with a sense of contentment as he kissed her. She returned his affections with a yearning desire. Then she coveted his battered body with soft, gentle kisses, whilst her fingers caressed his chest with tender, soothing circles of longing. His dormant passions were ignited, and his growing desires craved to loose themselves in her offering. And although they didn't actually do 'it', certainly not in Dean's state, he most definitely yearned for her sexually… for the first time since Sam had… gone. And maybe he'd be up for it, just as soon as his ribs were!

And just maybe he could live an Apple Pie life… for Lisa and Ben… and for Sam.

But perhaps first he should check out the unexplained, freaky electrical storms they'd been having lately…

~~~~~oooOOOooo~~~~~

As the night sky was slowly painted in a soft pallet of pinks and oranges, outside Lisa Braeden's house a tall figure stood under a flickering street light, just as he had every night for the passing of two full moons. He wasn't sure why the man in the house seemed to draw him there, or why he hadn't as yet been able to approach the man. He had certainly been tempted to. When he saw the man stagger from the sleek black Chevy, obviously injured, long dead emotions stirred deep in his guts. Even though there was something about the man that seemed familiar some long forgotten reasoning held him back, made him feel that he did not belong in this man's life. Because all that he could recall, his entire memory, was of an eon of misery and despair, locked in Hell's deepest dungeon…

_But that's another story!_

_FIN_

_~~~~~oooOOOooo~~~~~_

_Thank you for reading, I hope you have enjoyed this fic. _

_I'm sorry the last chapter was so long. It started of much shorter, but it just wasn't quite right - I hope it is now. Its been reworked quite a lot, I hope for the better._

_chrissymi :D_


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